


Hurt

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Bruises, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Handcuffs, Insults, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Sadism, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imayoshi doesn’t need anything but himself, and Hanamiya, and maybe a hard surface to shove the other against, but that doesn’t mean other tools don’t come in handy, sometimes." Imayoshi makes good use of use of a few extras with Hanamiya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).



Imayoshi likes hurting Hanamiya. There’s a thrill to the power of it, the control under his fingers at Hanamiya’s throat, the satisfaction of his knuckles forcing bruises in between the spaces of Hanamiya’s ribs. It’s exciting to see the way Hanamiya’s gold eyes go wide and blank for a moment in the first rush of hurt, the way his taunting mouth falls slack and gasping in instant response to Imayoshi’s actions. And he likes it all for himself, likes the pattern of his fingers across Hanamiya’s skin and the temptation of danger if he hits too hard, if he presses too hard, the thrumming fragility of life trusted to the cup of his palms with a recklessness that runs hot through his veins. He can make do with just his hands, has done so more than once without a need for anything more complicated. Fists are an effective weapon, after all, knees even better; once he kicked Hanamiya so hard the other retched, would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach, and Imayoshi had shoved him over onto his stomach and fucked him open while he was still choking on air his spasming chest wouldn’t quite let him have.

Imayoshi doesn’t  _need_  anything but himself, and Hanamiya, and maybe a hard surface to shove the other against, but that doesn’t mean other tools don’t come in handy, sometimes. The handcuffs they’re using right now are an advantage, grind lines of blood against Hanamiya’s wrists when he struggles as rope never does, and there’s the bedframe too, heavy and solid and worth all the money Imayoshi spent to get one sturdy enough to withstand Hanamiya’s strength. But it’s the knife that he really likes, the scalpel-sharp edge of it coming up to catch the light like his glasses do when he moves, the shudder of Hanamiya’s dark lashes enough to say whatever the slick glide of his tongue over his lower lip doesn’t.

“You wouldn’t,” Hanamiya insists, like he’s not arching off the bed like he’s trying to draw the edge in closer, like his cock’s not dripping precome over his stomach at the very idea. “Not on your precious kouhai.”

“I would,” Imayoshi says, reaches out to spread his hand wide across Hanamiya’s chest and shove down hard enough to hold him in place, hard enough to catch the edge of his breathing strained with the pressure. Hanamiya’s heart is pounding under his fingers, fluttering with the same anticipation Imayoshi can see bright and manic in the other’s eyes. Imayoshi smiles, slow and deliberate, lets the expression spread out over his face like he’s stretching tight muscles into comfort, and then he looks down, shifts his hold on the handle of the knife until it’s braced against his steady grip.

“You won’t,” Hanamiya says again, the words fluttering into suggestion in his throat. He knows better, Imayoshi  _knows_  he knows better, but he keeps talking like the words are a spell, some incantation to draw Imayoshi closer. “You won’t, you won’t, you--” He hisses at the pressure of the knife, gasps himself incoherent on reaction to the slide of the edge past his skin, but Imayoshi doesn’t look up; he has to keep his attention on what he’s doing, the brace of his hand against the pound of Hanamiya’s heartbeat and the whisper-careful draw of the knife across his skin. Blood pools in the wake of his movement, trickles against Hanamiya’s too-pale skin and stains the razor edge of the knife, but Hanamiya’s groaning, now, shuddering some threat rendered toothless by the incoherence in his voice, and Imayoshi is going harder with every heartbeat, his entire body focused on filling his cock with as much blood as it can take.

“Be quiet,” he says, purring the words as he winds the cut farther, takes it in from Hanamiya’s waist to run over the line of his hip, separating skin from itself across the taut flex over bone. It’s the ease that flushes his cheeks, how simple it is to push and cut with barely a thought, that and the spill of blood trickling across Hanamiya’s skin to stain the bedsheets underneath them.

“Fuck you,” Hanamiya says, articulate only in the face of a direct order to the contrary. He shifts his weight, the motion of his leg barely giving Imayoshi the warning he needs to draw the knife back before Hanamiya bucks up, hard enough to injure himself if Imayoshi hadn’t reacted in time. It makes Imayoshi frown, sweeps his smile away as fast as it formed, and then he’s leaning in, bracing a hand next to Hanamiya’s face so the other startles at the motion, so Imayoshi’s hand catches strands of dark hair against the mattress to pin the other in place.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he says, sharp and clear and unmistakeable. Hanamiya’s staring at him, expression blank of anything but shock; Imayoshi reaches out without looking to set the knife against the table, to free his hand to snap around and across the other’s cheek. Hanamiya’s head swings to the side, his breath rushing from his lungs in shock at the impact, and Imayoshi hits him again, backhand this time and across his mouth so his lip catches at the edge of his teeth. Hanamiya makes a sound, a weird low groan like it’s being wrenched forcibly from his throat, and Imayoshi isn’t surprised to see the haze collecting in his eyes, coherency washed away by the bruising pain at his face.

“Look at me,” Imayoshi orders, and then, when Hanamiya doesn’t blink away the intoxicated shadow of pain from his eyes, he grabs at his chin, turns the other’s face up towards him. Hanamiya’s lip is bleeding, spilling blood against the white of his teeth and slick over his tongue, but he doesn’t move even to lick it away; he looks lost, out of his mind in some faroff place, until Imayoshi isn’t sure he’s listening at all.

“ _Makoto_.” That gets him a blink, a drag of eyelashes over the dark in Hanamiya’s eyes, and when he turns his head he looks a little more focused, a little more present. “Are you listening?”

Hanamiya’s tongue slides across his lip, smears the red out across the torn skin. “Yeah.”

“Not when I’m cutting you.” Imayoshi keeps his hold on the other’s chin, tight enough to hold it in place but not so much it will start to ache and wipe out Hanamiya’s attention again. “You can’t move when I’m cutting you.”

Hanamiya whines, shivers against the bed; Imayoshi doesn’t have to look down to know his cock is hot against his stomach, spilling precome to join the blood at his skin. “It  _hurts_.” It’s hot, an excuse for his distraction and not a plea for less; he makes the word sound like sex in his throat.

“I know,” Imayoshi says, doesn’t look down at the lines he’s etched into Hanamiya’s skin. “That’s why I don’t want to have to stop doing it.”

A groan, another shuddering arch, but Hanamiya’s eyes are clearing, collecting obedience in perfect time with irritation. “Fine.”

“Good,” Imayoshi says. He lets his hold at Hanamiya’s face go, drags his fingers down to scratch bruises against the other’s shoulder as a reward for his compliance; Hanamiya shivers, quivering across the bed, and Imayoshi lets him, leaves him untouched for a moment while he reaches for the lube at the bedside table. He’s got the bottle open, is slicking liquid across his palm in a smooth-practiced motion, when Hanamiya realizes what he’s doing and whines frustration.

“ _Senpai_ ,” he groans, arches up off the bed in a long thrum of anxious movement. Imayoshi can see his fingers curling, his wrists dragging bruise-hard at the handcuffs. “I said I wouldn’t move.”

“No more,” Imayoshi insists, reaching out to hold Hanamiya’s knee wide and hopefully out of risk of kicking while he slicks his palm over the length of his cock, feels the heat of arousal temporarily lost to panic flush him hard against his hand. He goes slow, easing his fingers over himself to coat himself thoroughly, watches Hanamiya’s eyes dip down to follow the press of his fingers against the dark-swollen head. “You’ll have to wait till next time.”

Hanamiya hisses at that, does try to aim a kick at Imayoshi’s hip; it’s a weak movement, nothing like a true attempt, and Imayoshi’s pretty sure it’s intended to urge him forward faster more than from the desire to truly inflict pain. He tightens his hold anyway, shoves down until Hanamiya’s hip angles painfully wide with the force, and then he’s leaning in, tipping himself closer while the other is still groaning through the hurt.

“Quiet, Makoto,” he says, and then he guides the head of his slick cock to the other’s entrance and Hanamiya obeys, goes still and silent and breathless with instant anticipation. Imayoshi drags a slippery thumb across the skin -- his one concession to preparation -- and then braces his fingers at the base of his cock, holds himself steady as he pushes forward into Hanamiya.

He’s too tight for the first inch, the pressure white-blinding along Imayoshi’s spine and only made worse when Hanamiya groans a shuddering note of reaction and clenches down against the intrusion. Imayoshi has to go still for a moment, wait for his own head to clear and Hanamiya to ease up a little; then he draws back, slow to give Hanamiya time to whimper relief before he fucks into him again, deeper this time, forcing the other’s body open around the width of his cock. Hanamiya jerks against the bed, groaning something that would be pain in anyone else’s throat but his, and Imayoshi is smiling, pleasure coursing up his spine at the feel of Hanamiya shuddering around him.

“Makoto,” he purrs, rocking himself back to thrust forward entirely in the same motion. Hanamiya’s eyes shut, his head arching back on the bed and his cock twitching hard against his stomach. Imayoshi shifts his knees wider, holding Hanamiya’s legs farther apart by his position, and pulls back again, fucks forward into the heat of the other’s body. Hanamiya’s head is still back, his forehead creased against the hurt of the motion, but Imayoshi can hear the sound of his breathing, the whine of vocalization spilling from his lips with every shift of Imayoshi’s hips.

“Senpai,” breathless, shattered open along the gap between the syllables; he’s tensing again, a shudder of reaction that ripples all along Imayoshi’s cock before he goes slack again. “You’re  _hurting_  me.”

“Good,” Imayoshi says, and draws Hanamiya’s leg up and off the bed. The shift relieves some of the pressure against the other’s hips, draws a gust of instinctive relief from his lips, but Imayoshi is just bracing his fingers against the inside of Hanamiya’s knee, steadying his grip before he leans in to press the other’s leg up towards his chest. Hanamiya wails at the stretch, his back curving in an attempt to ease the angle, but Imayoshi holds it, his grip unshakeable as he maintains the slow, unwavering thrust of his hips into the other.

“You feel good like this, Makoto,” he observes, aiming for distant amusement that goes a little overheated somewhere between his chest and his lips. Hanamiya’s tightening against him, the reaction involuntary and all-encompassing, his entire body thrumming with tension. His eyes are open again but Imayoshi is sure he’s not seeing anything, isn’t sure he’s thinking to blink, and the slack fall of his mouth says that the shaky moans in his throat are reflexive rather than intended.

Imayoshi keeps talking anyway. The words fill the air, tangle against the broken noises Hanamiya is making, and the vibration is shimmering in his chest, filling his throat with the pressure of sound to match the aching grip of Hanamiya’s body around him. “You’re tighter this way,” he says, pushes a little harder against the other’s leg. “It’s like it’s your first time all over again, like you’re not my little slut.” He fucks in hard, looks away from the glaze of Hanamiya’s expression to the dark flush of his cock, the head glassy-shiny with precome and his balls drawing up against his body without ever being touched. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Hanamiya groans, eyelashes fluttering heavy against his cheeks. It’s answer enough, even if Imayoshi had been waiting for permission; he looks back down, to the spill of red against Hanamiya’s skin and the crimson ache of want against his cock, reaches out careful fingers for the other’s body, and when he touches it’s to fit his fingers against the line traced by the knife and not the curve of his erection.

Hanamiya jolts. The tension in him ripples against Imayoshi, drags an exhale of pleasure from his lungs, and he slides his fingers down farther, pressing hard enough for the clotted injury to reopen under his fingers, to make space for his touch the same way his cock forced the other open. Hanamiya’s gasping, now, choking for air and hiccuping like he’s crying, and Imayoshi doesn’t stop, pushes his fingers back up to trace the cut again while Hanamiya’s cock flushes harder, straining against the air for the friction Imayoshi’s not giving him. It’s almost enough, Imayoshi can feel it in all the aching tension along Hanamiya’s body, and then he draws his hips back, thrusts in in one clean, deliberate action, and Hanamiya wails and starts to come.

He’s still in the first pulse of heat when Imayoshi gets his hand wrapped around his flushed length. Hanamiya convulses at the touch, his entire body flexing taut against Imayoshi’s hold, and Imayoshi strokes up over him, his fingers dragging too-much sensation over the other’s length. Hanamiya’s eyes roll back, his chest flexing against desperate air, and he’s shuddering against the bed, the tremors in his body subject entirely to the draw of Imayoshi’s fingers as the other drags his orgasm out of him, keeps stroking until the last twitches of reaction have given way to limp exhaustion.

He thinks Hanamiya might have passed out, for a minute. There’s no reaction when he draws his hand away, braces Hanamiya’s legs wide again as he starts to thrust forward at a faster pace in pursuit of his own satisfaction. Then he angles his hips to the left, thrusts forward at just the right place, and Hanamiya shudders again, flexing tense against him.

“ _Senpai_ ,” he groans, the handcuffs rattling as he drags useless against them. His eyes come open, the gold focusing on Imayoshi’s face between his flinching reaction to too-much sensation on each stroke of the other’s hips.

Imayoshi knows what’s coming. “Yes, Makoto?” There’s an ache low in his stomach, heat climbing his spine like electricity; his voice still comes out smooth, low and rumbling with anticipation.

“I--” Imayoshi fucks forward, cuts off Hanamiya’s words into a shuddering groan and another flutter of eyelashes. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yes?” Imayoshi says again. His vision is going hazy, his peripheral vision fading out until all he can see is Hanamiya’s face, the wet-open part of his lips and the shadows in his wide-blown pupils. “Tell me.”

“I fucking love you,” Hanamiya groans, giving in to another full-body shudder, and Imayoshi smiles, and ducks his head, and lets the heat break over him, spills into Hanamiya in a stutter-short thrusts until he finally goes still in the warm-glow aftermath of pleasure.

Hanamiya is a mess underneath him. His wrists are bruised from the handcuffs, one trickling blood against the inside of his arm, his stomach a sticky mess of come and blood together. Imayoshi has left fingerprints on the inside of his thigh, bruises at his knee, and the tear at his lip is starting to swell, the blood clotting into a dark spot just inside his mouth. Imayoshi leans in, presses his flushed-warm skin against the mess across Hanamiya’s; when he fits his mouth to the other’s Hanamiya turns in without protest, only barely hissing when Imayoshi sucks against his injured lip.

“I love you, Makoto,” Imayoshi says, spilling the words against the dark of Hanamiya’s mouth, the white sharp of his teeth. “You’re beautiful.”

The words hum into honesty against his lips.


End file.
